"Please, dear," Mrs. Prescott said again and again, "call me Nana and call Mr. Prescott Papa."
It was almost like asking me to speak profanity. What about my real Nana and Papa? Would they sulk in the shadows, be forced to disappear? And then how would all my other real relatives feel? Surely they would think me ungrateful, deserting them, and they would take away my visions and my strength. I would never be able to go home again, inheritance or no inheritance. What was Ito do?
"We're home!" Nana Prescott cried the moment we turned into the driveway, as if she had feared we'd never arrive.
Their home was much as she had described. It was a modest but very pretty house with Wedgwood blue shutters and a walkway bordered by waist-high bushes, a flower bed in front, and a small fountain with a pair of birds at the center. The water ran down their beaks as though they had just dipped them into the pond for a drink.
The two-car garage door went up, revealing a very organized and well-kept garage with cabinets and shelves. Even the garage floor looked like it was scrubbed clean daily. Their second car was an SUV, and I could see the golf clubs in the rear, the heads of which were looking out the window, impatiently waiting for Papa Prescott to make use of them. He carried my things into the house, and then Nana Prescott showed me about.
Everything looked untouched. It was like a model home, with magazines neatly in the racks, furniture polished and looking unused, not a thing out of place. They had a big-screen television set in their family room, as they called it. Somehow, I expected to see a piano. In my mind's eye, there was always a piano in a home. It couldn't be a home without one. I could often hear Mama playing it, the melodies trailing through my memory, weaving in and out of visions like so much musical thread.
Something's not right here, I thought. It wasn't just the neatness, either. What was it? I wondered, and then I realized, that this house was too quiet. There were no voices whispering, no footsteps to be heard, no doors opening and closing. Even the dust didn't move when it was caught in a ray of light. Stillness lay like cellophane over the doors, the walls, the windows and floors. Because of that, the Prescotts spoke very softly, and when they walked, they seemed to be tiptoeing over the carpets and flooring, as if there was someone sleeping upstairs who must not be woken.
"We'll get you settled in," Nana Prescott said. "Papa will be off to play golf with his buddies, but you and I can get to know each other better. You can help me in the kitchen. Do you like roast pork? I thought we'd have that as a special occasion dinner."
"I don't know," I said. I really didn't. I couldn't remember ever having it.
"Well, if you don't, I'll just make you something else right away," Nana Prescott promised.
They took me up to see my room, hoping it would be to my liking. My liking? How could I, an orphan for so many years, not be happy to have my own room?
Nana Prescott had gone out and bought brandnew bedding for the queen-size bed and had Papa Prescott hang new white and pink curtains. They had a maid twice a week, and it was obvious she had spent a lot of time getting everything looking brand-new. Spotless windows gleamed. The mauve carpet was vacuumed so that it looked recently laid, and all the furniture had been polished until I could see my face reflected in the wood. It was a pretty room, much prettier than anywhere I had slept since I had left the farm, of course.
"We want you to be as comfortable as a baby blue-bird in her nest," Nana Prescott told me.
I mouthed my thank-you's, but I was still too nervous and afraid to really smile. The two of them watched me look over the room, both standing in the doorway, smiling like proud new grandparents should smile. The happier and more excited about me they were, the more nervous I grew, and the tighter and tighter I drew that cocoon around me. I'm sure that, among other things, was what eventually discouraged them.
As soon as I had put away my things, I went with Nana Prescott to the kitchen.
Once again she was the nervous one, babbling about her childhood, her school days, her parents and grandparents, moving from one topic to another like a bored television viewer flipping channels. It was as though she was told she had to get everything about her past out and in my head before I went to sleep. I was polite and spoke a little more about myself, mainly because I was curious about her and Papa Prescott and their children and grandchildren. I looked at all the pictures and heard her descriptions of everyone.
"They're all going to love you," she predicted. "You'll see."
Was that possible? Could anyone just look at me and love me, or was that just another one of the lies that trailed adults like so many ribbons caught in the wind?
I helped her set the table, and then I went up to my room and looked at the books on the shelf, children's book and young adult
books their daughter Michelle had read and kept. Some of them I had read, too, but others attracted my interest. Strangely, I felt guilty every time I saw something I liked or took pleasure in anything that would be mine.
At dinner, Nana Prescott bragged to Papa Prescott how much I had helped her. I had done very little, but I could see she thought exaggerating would make me feel good. I did enjoy the dinner she made. It was tastier than the food at the orphanage, and there was her homemade blueberry pie and ice cream for dessert. Papa Prescott talked about his golf game, even though it was pretty clear Nana Prescott had no interest and thought he should be talking about something that would interest me. It was as if he didn't see her, or me, for that matter. At times it was more like he was talking to himself aloud.
Is this what happens to people when they grow old together? I wondered. Do they begin to separate in lit- tle ways until they wake up one morning and discover they are all alone again? They didn't have what I had, I thought. They didn't have the something wonderful that held us all together, all of us tied together by whispers and shadows. Yes, that was what I missed the most now. Just thinking about it made me sad.
"Are you all right, dear?" Nana Prescott asked me. She saw the expression on my face, I guess.
I nodded.
"She's just tired," Papa Prescott said, smiling at me. "It's been a big day for her."
Why didn't he say you? It's been a big day for you? I wondered. He made me feel like we were all talking about someone else, or like I was in a glass case and they were observing me.
Finally, I went up to bed.
The first night I went to sleep in my new room, I continued to have a battle with myself. One part of me wished I was back in the orphanage, even under the control and terror of Madame Annjill. Once again, I was reminded about betraying my real family. Another part of me didn't want to feel that way. It wasn't a rich and ornate bedroom, but after spending the last six years in a room with three other girls, each of us confined to a small space for our possessions and schoolbooks, I was excited.
This was the first night I had slept anywhere but the orphanage for nearly four years. I couldn't keep my eyes closed, even though I was so tired. Every sound in the house made my lids snap open. I would wait and listen for the next tinkle, the next creak. Was that the sound of the front door opening? A window? Were those footsteps on the stairway? Was that my bedroom door being opened?
At one point it was opened. Nana Prescott had come to my room to look in on me and see if I was all right. I quickly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. She stood there for a few more moments and then quietly closed the door.